Serpents
by yellowspotlight89
Summary: The two of them only needed to stand close and all the air compressed and got heavy around them. Thick, tense...even sensual. And from the looks the others gave them, it didn't go unnoticed... Richonne x Dixonne. 2-3 Shot.
1. Where it Starts

**Rating: M for language, blood and violence, sexual innuendos, sexual tension, and, well, sex.**

* * *

Serpents, A Walking Dead Fan Fiction

_**Where it Starts**_

_It was a close call. Sitting in the back of the room with a __bowl __you would __own__, but they didn't know.__ Closing on my back I feel safe at times. Certain emblems tell me it's time, serpents in my mind…_

Rick Grimes is staring.

Staring at the woman who is gone but is there. He knows she should _not_ be there. Should not lure his gaze from stocking the trunk with gun supplies and onto a more favorable distance. But in spite of what should and should not be, she does.

And Rick stares.

As the forest's clear to see, so is Rick Grimes's wife. The white dress on a slim figure. A cool smile on the face framed by chestnut hair. And pallid cheekbones, embedded in warmth. Warmth even in death.

"You see something?"

There's a ripple in the white. Rick blinks and she's back.

But so is someone else.

The smoky female voice hauls Grimes's focus from the not-there wife and to the woman who is.

"I know you see things," she says. Her lips purse, a thought between them. "People."

Rick arches an eyebrow.

_And how the hell do you know that?_

As Deputy Sheriff made Survival Leader, Rick has encountered his share of types. People. He's gotten apt at reading them too. After all, one has to know folk's intentions before intention forms the action. The ache at his shoulder is raw reminder of that. Still Rick saw Morgan's blade-clenching fist was set on bringing pain. He just wasn't swift enough to stop it.

But Michonne? She's a peculiar one. Rick can never read her actions, intentions. Just who is she? A foe with an agenda under that unfazed gaze? Or the friend, an ally, whatever Rick considers the people who flicker into his life until the Unnatural snatch them away.

Rick hardly concerns himself with this foe-ally getting snatched away, though. The mulish Michonne isn't going nowhere. Hell, if walkers had sense in their one-track brains, he thinks they'd run from _her_. Rick remembers the first time he's seen Michonne. Fists clenched around the prison gates, Walkers flanking her sides, and a bullet in the leg.

_Michonne, Michonne, _Rick thinks on an absent shake of the head.

Like a cat, she evades the odds.

Like a cat, she evades _him_.

While Rick's jaw is lax, Michonne's is the exact opposite. Stern-chinned with keen eyes all too aware of his every moment. He doesn't doubt she notes the minute throb of his pulse, fighting the unshaven skin at his throat. Why does she stare like this? As if she's peeling him apart, layer by layer.

She won't get a confession, that's for certain.

_Why yes, I do see people. In fact my dead wife is standing by those woods right now. Wave hello._

Rick looks away from Michonne. Let her stare all she wants. She isn't getting to his head. Into his head. The there and not-there wife already fills the position and at least she never points out his crazy.

Speaking of which, Rick finds her again. Silent and still as he knew she'd be. Rick's dead wife never speaks. Rarely, she moves. Though she does move now. Lifting a hand, her fingers stir the air from side to side. His gaze slims, as if there's sun in his eyes…

"I used to talk to my dead boyfriend."

Rick's gaze snaps over.

Michonne's lean shoulders raise then drop to a shrug. It's the most casual gesture Rick has ever seen her make. And what a thing to act casual about.

"It happens."

So seeing dead people just _happens_ now?

This woman's peculiar, indeed.

The glimpse of white catches the corner of Rick's vision. He means to look to it, her, but the one currently under eye demands further inspection.

Grimes didn't know others went through this. Besides a long faced boy in that 90s movie, Rick wasn't aware others "saw" people like he does. Talked to them as he has. He isn't sure if Michonne's dead boyfriend ever rung her on the phone, but still.

Rick reclines on a heel, wears an intentionally dulled expression. He prepares to word the question at the edge of his tongue.

"And how'd you drop that habit?" He asks.

Michonne looks him on even.

"I stopped."

Slightly agitated, Rick pushes back his disheveled hair. _Please. Too many details. I can't keep up._

"Stopped." Rick lifts his fingers and snaps. "Just like that?"

"Cold turkey. Yeah." An inflicted tone and a lift at her eyebrow; it comes off as a challenge, as if to say _can't you_?

In the backdrop, his wife's dress ruffles. It tempts Rick's eye but with Michonne's hawk stare, Rick won't address the temptation. He looks skyward instead.

"It ain't that easy," he says.

As if to blame it for this all, Rick glares at the dull flat blue. In ways, he can blame it. If Heaven's up there, it's where Lori should be. Instead she skirts the sidelines of his vision, muffles his thoughts, her soundless voice whispering his name—

"I only said that I stopped," Again it's the smoky voice that clears the smoke from Rick's brain, drawing him out from the depths of dead Lori lands. "Never said it was easy, did I?"

Rick drops his chin to watch Michonne watching him. Damn this woman can stare. It'd be hell on earth if the Devil challenges her to a staring contest. Fire and walkers everywhere.

Amused by his thoughts, Rick's lip quirks.

"Nah," he says. "You didn't."

Rick taps a finger to the buckle at his belt. An idle action, but one that catches Michonne's attention. As her eyes drop down, heat creeps under Rick's collar. What is he, a kid? She's drawn to his belt, a very nice belt which happens to lie across his nether region. Still, Rick's hot at the neck, Michonne's eyes aren't drawing up, and his loins begin to feel the weight of those eyes.

Rick clears his throat.

"You want to drive?" He asks, retrieving car keys from his shirt pocket.

Michonne removes her eyes. Finally.

"Yeah." There's a catch to her voice and her expression is one of unease. Flustered?

"Good." Rick holds out the keys. Michonne reaches for them and their fingertips meet but before letting her have the set, he pauses. "I see things."

Michonne's lips twitch. Full, curvy lips of a dark and pink tone. Full. Did he mention that? This detail's something Rick picks up on without trying. He also doesn't try to note how well those lips match up with her eyes. Eyes that aren't holding him in a challenging vice right now. They're relaxed, a subtle lilt at the corners. Feminine. Against the rich brown skin, the dark eyes and full lips compete for his attention.

Woah, woah wait. What competition? In fact, what is _this_? Squeezing the keys between their hands, their fingertips touching, and Rick getting attentive on her face like this?

If he wasn't out his mind, Rick would think he was_ flirting_.

He should look away now. Release these keys and release his stare. But one second becomes two, two becomes three, and three becomes several more as neither Michonne or himself look away.

Then her lips part the slightest, a short pull in air. Rick wets his own lips.

Damn it.

He hadn't meant that. Or at least what it looked like it meant. It's not long till Michonne breaks the staring contest, snatches the keys from Rick's hands and turns. She slides away, leaving Rick at the rear of the car. And speaking of rears...his eyes drift down.

Make that double damn.

Well. Michonne got a good scope of his belt, so why can't he look at her jeans? Jeans that happen to have a particularly rounded backside fitted under them. Slim as Michonne is, the details just kinda…pops. Her shirt, slightly raised above the waistline, reveals the hint of indents at her back. Suddenly in desperate need of moisture, Rick's tongue goes out to the lips again.

Indents. Yes. Lori has indents. Very fine ones at her cheekbones. Rick doesn't need to look at Michonne's back dimples. Not when he has his wife's nice ones to…

But that's the thing, isn't it? He doesn't have those dimples. He doesn't have his wife.

That lady in white, beckoning his gaze, is dead.

Dead like the walkers, animated by a feverous hunger.

Dead like his best friend, animated by a fever long before he turned.

And Lori Grimes, wife of Rick Grimes, also dead. Dead and walking.

Animated by a husband's feverous hunger.

'Least Michonne stopped talking to her dead boyfriend.

Then again, it happens… right?

Rick's gone wife is still there. So close and impossibly far. Not flesh and bone and dimples, but a living picture of his past. Rick looks at her and a slim smile touches her face. Familiar. Warm. She beckons him to return it, but Rick firms his lip. Unlike when he'd teased Michonne, Grimes feels no urge to smile.

Not at a phantom.

The phantom never loses her smile, though it does lose something; its form. The silent figure steps back, melting into greenery as the dress wades around her ankles.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, Lori is gone.

Rick stares at the spot she leaves behind. Stares until the car engine's rev startles him in action. Rick Grimes shakes his head like a dog ridding of the wetness of a bath. It's time to go. Adjusting the crib box and gun bags one last time, Rick slams the trunk shut. He feels light of head and feet as he moves alongside the car. As he passes the backseat window, his son looks up from behind it. Rick nods to him and Carl pinches the edge of the sheriff's hat. His dark eyes are his mother's. Iron imbeds Rick's back and he moves on.

Slipping into the passenger seat, Rick molds himself against the battered cushion. His eyes slip Michonne's way. One hand taps the steering wheel, the other settled against her thigh.

"Ready?" Rick asks.

Michonne globes a hand around the shift, tugging it forward.

"Yeah," she says.

Rick holds her eye, Michonne looks away, and they are driving.

* * *

The following days make no room for ghosts.

No room for anything, really, save for the thinking, the watching. Rick's okay with the thinking. The mind is a familiar space. He's alright watching too, even if it's not comfortable. Really, who gets comfortable rigging binoculars to their eyes for hours on end? Though it's what binoculars let him see that's all but contenting.

Such as those…things that are not really _things_.

Loose-limbed and messy staggers, yet they stagger with purpose.

Foggy-eyed with beastlike brains, yet those brains have desires.

Monsterous jaws on rotting skin, yet a human jaw on that rotting skin.

The walkers; they are human. The truth of that is a cold nail grazing Rick's spine.

But _waiting_ is worse. Whether it's for a pal to return after he takes off on no word, presumably after his brother, or for the inevitable encounter with a woman whose life you were about to trade for some feeble peace of mind… Rick can't get cozy watching, but he can't _stand_ waiting.

Yet wait he does. Hands clasped between knees and his nose pointed towards the floor. Pale light dusts the prison cell, shifting through the lateral windows to pool as far as Rick's feet. From there it's all cool shadow. He likes it this way.

"Lock yourself in dark cells often?"

Ah. There she is. The woman he's been waiting for. On a brief exhale, Rick unfolds his shoulders.

"I don't mind self-imprisonment," he says. "It's all this dust I mind."

An itch hits the throat and Rick raises a fist to his mouth and coughs. Shoulda knocked on wood.

"Not very scenic either," Michonne says.

Rick looks about the cell. Well, let's see. Gray slate for wall. Gray block for table. Gray square for bible.

"No, not scenic."

He decides to make it scenic by looking at her.

Yeah. She's a much more vibrant sight than all that gray. Lean body, dark skin, bright eyes. Eyes that look him straight on. And just as when he'd first met her, the something in between them. The first time it was gates. Now it is bars.

"The smell's what gets to me," Michonne says, distaste clear in her tone. "Stale."

Michonne wrinkles her nose and Rick bites on his lip to keep a smile down. Now is not the time to smile, but the way she looks with her nose all scrunched up... it's…cute.

Michonne clasps the cell door and there's a grunt of steel.

"Can I come in?" she asks, drawing it open.

Rick lets the suppressed smile unfold.

"You already are."

Michonne's smirk appears briefly then fades. The bars part under her hand and now nothing stands in between. Just dust, air, and silence. Michonne turns to hauls the cell shut. Her katana is hoisted at the shoulder, the exposed edge rested against her waist. It's a glimmering reminder that Michonne's not here for tea. If anyone might dice Rick up for being made an almost human sacrifice, he would place high bets on her.

But given that Michonne's not fingering her weapon, she may want to talk first, behead later. Rick's stare skims from her waist to right beneath it. He lingers on her backside. Well. Her sword is sorta right there. It'd be wise if he kept an eye on the area.

For safety purposes.

Michonne turns around and shapely thighs enter Rick's view. Not meaning to act shameless, Rick's gaze trail up to meet hers, but finds themselves caught at a pit stop. His throat restricts on a swallow.

God—her breasts. Under the form-fitting shirt, they're unapologetically round. Rick's curious to know what they looks like. Bare.

He quickly pulls a hand over his face. What the hell. He can't be wondering this. Michonne's breasts aren't his business. It's wrong to picture her like that. _Stare_ at her like that. Enticing, a bit exciting…but wrong. Rick opens his eyes to dusty foreground and prison bars, noting Michonne has moved further into the cell. Her profile mostly hidden by her long locks, her cheek seems dimpled. Is she …smiling? Rick's ears grow hot.

She noticed him staring, didn't she. Not like Grimes did a thing to make her _not_ notice.

What's up with him, anyways?

He's hardly looks at a woman in months, his wife included. Now the wife is gone, Michonne's chest is there, and he can't keep the foam off his lips?

Michonne pauses at the table, her back to him again as she draws a hand to her sword. To her sword. Rick tenses with a finger at his belt. All too late he realizes he has no gun there. It's near where Michonne stands, on the small table. His stomach clenches.

Michonne's katana rips the air just as Rick stumbles up from the bed, hand out.

"Wait Micho—"

She peers over shoulder.

"Yeah?" Michonne lays her sword on the table, beside his gun.

"Uh." Standing awkwardly for a second, Rick plops back down to the cot. He rubs at his neck. "Er, nothing. Never mind."

Arching a brow, Michonne slips into the far corner and faces Rick. The dim cell settles to a quiet. Real quiet. Not even the chatter of the others in neighboring cells. Rick had left them outside when he'd fessed to trading Michonne's life for a frail treaty. If the group has headed into the cell block already, he hadn't heard them reenter. But evening approaches and someone would announce supper sometime soon.

For now, Rick is alone with Michonne.

This doesn't feel wise, but not much he can do.

Not as if he can call on Daryl to monitor the situation; the Dixon's not even here. How important is supervision anyways? Michonne laid down her weapon. The woman who ate with it at her lap and walked with it at her hip has set the katana aside for this moment. A safer time alone with her will never exist.

To separate herself from her tool of survival is a true sign of trust and _to_ trust. Rick doesn't feel he deserves it. Not this trust and not the feeling that comes with it. A softening that spreads from the chest and settles into his loins. She's made him feel this way before. And often.

Since their interaction at the car some days past, there's been a change. The two of them only needed to stand close and all the air compressed and got heavy around them. Thick, tense...even sensual. And from the looks the others gave them, it didn't go unnoticed. The group had even seemed stunned to learn Rick had sent Michonne to die. As if they knew that this stranger wasn't so strange to Rick no more.

And she now stares at him. Waiting.

But for what? Ah, the words. She's comes for him, but he needs to speak first. This was all made necessary by his doing, not hers. Rick slides his lips together. She's been patient enough.

"So," he starts on a cleared throat. "I'm sure you're aware that, uh, I'm…"

A dumbass. No, not that. Well, yeah that, but Rick means to say he's sorry.

He feels that sorry too, sitting like a stone in the stomach. One that's been settled there ever since he gave Merle word of his plan to give her up. And after pacing and rethinking, the stone only eroded when Rick decided he wouldn't let Merle do it. Couldn't send her away. Only to realize it was too late.

Rick rakes a hand through his matted hair.

That had put all sorts of _fucked up_ in his feelings.

Grimes isn't above apology. He'd had to when he laid down the gloves of his absolute rule, admitting it'd been wrong to make this group about him. The least he can do now is admit his wrongs to Michonne. She, if anyone, deserves an owning up to.

Without her, Maggie and Glenn might've never come back.

Without her, Rick wouldn't even know of a governor.

Without her, they'd been doomed from the start.

And yet he'd shipped Michonne off without a blink. Well, there'd been several blinks, but not nearly fast enough. Rick molds a hand around his neck, looking up at her and then away. He touches himself a lot around her. The neck, hair, jaw line. Michonne inspires schoolboy nerves Rick thought he'd long graduated from.

"Look. What I was to have Merle do wasn't right. I thought again and changed my mind, but you were gone already and…" Rick clears his throat, speaks past that stone. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry."

Michonne doesn't flinch a muscle. Doesn't blink. If crickets hadn't all disappeared or died, they'd be chirping right now. Great. Does he need to grovel? Rick isn't above that either. An idle thought puts himself at Michonne's knees, hands against her thighs and…

"It was a bad call," Rick adds to the cricket-less silence.

This earns him a hint of movement as Michonne's arms fold over her chest. A frown pulls at her lips. He feels his own mouth drawing flat as he anticipates intentions, actions.

"So you sent the wrong girl to jail," Michonne says after a while. "Gave her a death sentence."

"I did." Rick draws a hand along his beard, the bristles are sharp against his palm.

"I thought that was the judge's job," Michonne glances beyond the cell for a moment then back at Rick. "Not the sheriff."

One look at Michonne has Rick at a standstill. The furrowed brows, bent up posture, downcast gaze. She looks…hurt.

And Rick, the big dummy, the cause.

This shouldn't hit him like this. But his throat aches, the back muscles tense, and the damn stone is back.

Rick stands before he can tell himself _don't_, closing to space between himself and Michonne before he realizes _too late_. Michonne's hands go slack to her sides as she stares, eyes large on Rick's face. Must be alarmed from how fast he's moved, gotten close to her.

Rick sets his arm above Michonne's head, hand flat to the wall.

"When I said it was a bad call, that was an understatement." With a breath, his face bows towards hers. "It was an idiot's call. And I'm the idiot."

Muscles shift in Michonne's throat. Nerves. Unease? He really is close. With a mild step back, Rick gives her room to breathe. Lord knows he's uncomfortable with the closeness too, but for different reasons. His body is acting up and pulses in low places. He doesn't move completely away, though. Not with her eyes darting over his shoulder, as if seeking her katana.

He won't let her to it. They need words, not swords. Rick wants to fix this. He doesn't know what _this_ is, but it's been cracked and he won't let her go till it's mended.

"Letting the Governor have you would've just put a wider grin on his face. Right before he went on and attacked." He says.

Grimes debated the Governor's pledge with himself, coming to the conclusion that it was empty. That man is cold head to soles. Why'd Rick ever consider he might honor a pact? _Phillip_ wouldn't. He just wouldn't.

"Giving you up…" Rick says on a breath before pinning Michonne under his stare. "Giving you up would change nothing."

And , though, he can't admit. It's something he must wrestle with alone.

How the second he learned Michonne was already taken, his world got a little darker. How his mind had flashed with her broken body, the empty black in dark eyes, and he'd kicked a wall hard enough to storm gravel on his head.

Rick sighs, eyes briefly closed. Truth burns his tongue and honesty flushes his skin. It may be too blue gray in the dim space to see, but it still seems to raise the temperature in the minimal space amid their bodies. If he hadn't recognized the tangle of his feelings then, he knows them now.

Rick is fond of Michonne.

This fondness includes not wanting to give her up to governors, walkers, or well, anyone. Protecting her if needed. Of course he'd quicken to defend any member of the group. Though that is it. Before, Rick had decided this guest with common interests was on her own. Now Rick has an uncommon interest in the guest and _he_ doesn't want to leave her alone.

When he saw Michonne wading back to the prison, intact, whole, and safe, he'd felt good. Real good for a man at the end of the world. Good enough that, through the glare of dusk, he'd smiled down at her. Finally a woman he could smile at who was actually alive.

Rick holds her gaze now, but doesn't know what Michonne sees in his, though her expression says it's a lot to take in. She looks cornered, shocked.

"I'm sorry," Rick says again.

"How many times you gonna say that?" Michonne's frown has little strength and her tone soft. If anything, it's reaching. Curious.

"Until you say something back," Rick says. "Till you accept it. Or not. Whatever comes first."

Michonne's eyes lower and lashes graze her cheekbones.

"I came back, didn't I?"

Rick's stirs back a bit, trying to fight the feelings that look gives him. She is attractive. This fact distracts him more than it should. A finger hooped at his waistband, Rick nods.

"Yes you did." Come back, that is.

It's his turn to give Michonne narrowed eyes. He tilts his head at her.

"Just how did you, anyway?"

He's been pawing over that for a while. The woman comes home,_ er_, back to the prison. No Merle Dixon in sight and the other Dixon missing. It's a curious predicament.

Michonne throws her fingers in a careless gesture.

"Not much to explain," She says. "Merle and I talked, then he let me go. Kept going down the road."

_Okay_ then. Knowing the drive of the eldest Dixon, this sounds implausible, but Michonne's nonchalance is nothing to doubt. Unlike Shane on Odis, Michonne has no reason to lie. Just to return to a stale-smelling prison with war boiling at their feet?

So, if not through killing or handcuffing Merle's remaining hand to a steel bar, Michonne escaped with her life on talk. Slick.

Rick wonders if Michonne really _is_ a cat, as he'd thought of her before. Evading the odds. Evading him.

"I don't get it," Rick murmurs. He keeps one hand at his belt, the other at the wall above her.

"Get what?" Michonne's voice is coarse, and Rick feels it like a hum through his chest.

He smirks at her, subtle.

"You."

Michonne shifts back but seems to realize there's no back but the wall, no forward but Rick's chest. Rick feels no urge to free her. He kind of likes her under his hand, her body enclosed in him. Not submissive, but not resistant. She can slip away anytime she wants.

Apparently, she doesn't want to.

"I'm simpler than you think." Michonne says. Her eyes draw up as she speaks, and the look she gives him…

He's not sure what it is. Perhaps her dark-bright eyes under the dim lights, or the breaths, deepening in depth, but suddenly Rick is all too aware of Michonne's body. The rise and fall of her breasts is candy to his eye. The deep skin revealed in bare arms, a partially exposed midriff. Rick's groin stiffens.

Then his fingers get twitchy. He needs to do something with them. Touch. Body acting on it's own, Rick places a hand on Michonne's shoulder. A safe place, just testing the waters. And her waters are warm, the skin like a fever under his palm.

Her lips part on a brisk inhale. After a beat, Michonne's hand lifts to where Rick seizes her shoulder.

"Didn't I say never lay hands on me?" Her voice is like the tread of a cat's paw. Soft and forceless.

"I only have one hand on you," Rick says.

Michonne's lip sterns, then she laughs. An actual laugh. Rick's head tips in marvel. It's a pretty sound he wants to hear more of.

"You're not very good at flirting," she says. She looks thoughtful. "Somehow, it's works."

Rick has to laugh now too, a bit surprised, embarrassed, but as the chuckles settles to the dust, Rick sees they're still touching. His hand on her shoulder and hers clasped over it. Hot heat. Warm contact.

Rick eyes the pink on Michonne's full mouth.

And call it lust, desperation, missing a wife or the exact opposite, but Rick wants those lips. Right now. Bad.

So he takes them.

Rick bends to catch Michonne's mouth. It's a hard, sudden kiss and they're holding eye contact. Michonne stumbles back at it, her head meeting the concrete with a muted thump. Rick quickly releases her mouth and straightens. His heart rams.

Shit, he thinks. I just… kissed her.

Nudging at the fact he's interested is one thing. But acting on it? In the moment, it'd been all he knew to do. After what'd she said, then how she looked at him...it seemed an open invitation. But she wanted him to kiss her. Right? He cannot read her and Michonne looks at nothing but the backs of her eyelids. Rick shifts on his heel, starts to pull his hand off her shoulder. The bite of her nails pauses his action.

Then her eyes slide open. The look there tells Rick everything, and there's no more need for words.

Their lips collide, a rapid meeting of mouths. They kiss like they're starved, sloppy, overeager, wet. Rick's lips are forceful and Michonne's in for the fight, working hers against his hard presses for leverage. Her mouth is hot as her feverish shoulders and tastes sharp and fresh like a mint spring. Rick slides his hand free and roams every part of Michonne. Hands sliding across her breasts, down her waist. Their kisses unbroken, Michonne slips her finger at Rick's belt and jerks him closer.

Rick groans just as a sound leaves her lips. Rick likes that sound, knows it comes from his length against her, straining hard at his jeans. He hasn't been this hard in months.

Breathless, Rick disconnects their mouths. Michonne's just as breathy as him, her eyes open and darting under the dim cell. Her hands reach for Rick's face but he bends his head to her throat and presses his mouth against her skin, working down her column, lower and lower. He doesn't think, just does, lets his body lead his actions. Lets him tell it what it wants.

Her shirt in the way of his mouth, Rick tugs and Michonne helps lift it off her shoulders. The skirt flumps to the floor at the feet and Rick pulls back to see her. He tongues his lips at the sight of Michonne's breasts, cupped by a cream bra that glows against her skin. Watching the rise of her heaving breasts, Rick's breaths harden. Anticipation curls in his stomach.

"I want it off," Rick says, hardly recognizing his own voice.

Michonne's breath hitches, then she reaches back to unsnap it. Rick is quick to shove it aside and the bra falls away. His intake is sharp. He finally sees them bare, round as her tight shirt advertised. They're centered with dark, pert nipples. Throat dried from heavy breathing, Rick needs to touch these breasts, mouth her brown, juicy peaks.

Rick reaches out and cups her, gently massaging the rounded breasts in both hands. Michonne's visibly affected as she pants, writhes. Encouraged, Rick pinches a nipple and she cries out. The sound echoes against the dense walls and both stiffen. As the cry dies down and no other noise accompanies it, they breathe again.

"Maybe we should be quick," Michonne whispers. Her thick voice stirs Rick even more.

"We'll take the time we need," He says.

Breasts still cupped in his hands, he bends his mouth to her nipple. He covers it with his lips and licks it. Michonne gasps and hers nails dig into his shoulders. Rick winces and feels more blood pump downward at the thrill. He laps at her nipple for a while, the point soft against his tongue. He moves in closer to bring his lips in closer contact and sucks to the rhythm of Michonne's unsteady breaths. When her point firms under his sweeping tongue, Rick moves in to the nipple and laps and sucks, all the while plucking and pinching the wet nipple he'd left behind.

Michonne's hands are everywhere. Through Rick's hair, slapping his back, gripping his ass. When she squeezes his glutes, hard, Rick grunts. He likes that too much. His lips leave her firming nipple to line up with her mouth.

"No fair," he says, breaths fanning her lips. "You got a feel of my ass. I've never even touched yours yet."

"Go ahead." Michonne draws away from the wall and takes Rick's hand in hers. "You look at it enough."

Rick bites at his lip, smirking a little. This woman misses nothing. He lets Michonne lead his hand to her ass but needs no further direction to explore the surface. He caresses her ass before giving it a swat. Just as he'd thought. Fat and firm. He'd love to see it propped up as he came up behind her, the brown butt rocking back against his pinkened skin. It'd make a pretty picture.

But she was right; time is an issue here. The sunlight has retreated even further from the cell. Any minute the group could return. Rick hesitates to move his exploring hand from her ass, but he does with effort. It's time they took bigger steps.

Rick looks to her for silent permission as he reaches down. When Michonne nods, he unbuttons her jeans then slides down the zipper. Rick draws the tight material off her thighs. They quiver a little as he makes his way to the ankles and she steps out of them. Rick trails his hands back up till they settle at her ass. He pushes the panties back to grip her round buttocks bare. Hard of breath and looking eager, Michonne reaches for him. Rick thinks she'll unzip his jeans but instead she grasps him from over the material. He grunts, loudly, and Michonne makes quick work of the belt and jeans. Pants gone, Michonne seizes Rick's cock, stroking and rubbing through his boxer briefs in a steadily increasing rhythm. Rick's breaths fall like hot air. He's pulsing under her hand, getting so full he's pained.

Unable to take more, Rick seizes Michonne's wrists and moves her hands up till they're pinned overhead.

"I won't… last long like that," he says between breaths.

"Oops," Michonne says, brows raised. "Didn't realize you were that quick."

Her smirk is so smug that Rick has no choice but to wipe it off. He kisses her hard, not allowing her more than snatches of breath. Michonne seems fine with this, nipping his lip and moaning with her wrists pressing against his imprisoning grip.

Rick drops her wrists to glide his hand down her flat navel. It quivers as he goes lower and lower. Without warning he pushes his hand past Michonne's panties. She moans.

"More?" Rick asks, running his fingers across her curls.

"Is that really a question?" Her words are mumbled and he smirks against her mouth.

Rick's finger grazes past the thick curls and slides inside her easy. So wet, he thinks as he pumps her. Wet for me. His finger moves in shallow thrusts, squeezed by her clenching walls and satisfying both his cock and ego. He likes that he can affect her this way. When his fingers moves up to stroke a more sensitive spot, Michonne's hands slap his back with the force of whip.

"You're ready," Rick says, breath hoarse. He brings his lips to her ear. "To take me."

Michonne's hands tighten into his shirt.

"H-hell yeah."

Rick pulls out, his breaths rough as he looks at the wet finger. He watches her closely as he licks it. Michonne blinks a little, and her chin dips to the side. Rick knows if he touches her cheek, it'd be warm under his palm with a blush.

"Fucking adorable," Rick's voice is clouded, something of a growl.

Then his heart hits his feet. Shit. He didn't meant to admit that. Not aloud.

"Am I?" Michonne asks, looking a little less shy.

Biting a lip, she hooks her fingers to her panties and slides them down her legs, her eyes on him the whole time. Rick's eyes roam her now naked form and he can't keep his heartbeat still. She's a masterpiece. Even under weak lighting, her skin looks rich and smooth, her shape womanly and slender.

He grips himself, so ready to get inside that body. There's no more time to lose. He may be hearing things, but there's voices now. Far and muffled, but touching the walls and indicating nearness.

Michonne must hear it too because she looks off, then back at him.

"Now," she says.

Rick unfolds his fabric to loosen from the briefs material. His cock springs out, hard and long, and Michonne stares. Her eyes are wide and Rick feels a hot flush at his chest. If he didn't think himself well-endowed, her eyes confirm it.

Rick slides a finger over his sheath, already beaded with moisture. Michonne's pants fall from slack lips as he watches Rick's actions. With little warning, Rick grips the head and guides it inside her. Both suck air between teeth.

"Damn tight," Rick's voice strains as her body clenches him.

It's the best strain he's felt for a long, long time. He moves slowly at first, rocking his hips in shallow spurts as he pulls her close by the waist. Michonne's wrists cross at his neck as she lets herself be moved by his firm hands. She's clenching so right, so firm against him; Rick wants to plunge right in. He knows better, though. To do so would bring pain, especially if she hasn't taken a man in a while.

Rick wonders how long it's been for her. Given circumstances, he reckons a good minute Rick likes the idea of her not having anyone in such a long time. Maybe since the apocalypse. He wants to be the one to remind her what pleasure feels like.

He wants her to be the one to remind him too.

"I can take more," Michonne says, drawing his eyes.

Rick pauses his thrusts all together.

"You sure?"

Michonne holds him with a look that says _duh_.

Rick smirks.

"Alright." Tightening his grip at her waist, Rick jerks his hips to push inside on deeper thrusts. Gasping, Michonne scrapes her fingers down his back.

"Yeah," she gasps. "I like that. M-more."

Rick builds a quick, deep pace and it isn't long until they're both huffing for breath.

"God," Rick groans. His body can no longer stay upright and he bends over her body with a hand flat to the wall. He continues to pump in and out of her with his eyes on the heavy drops of her breasts. Called to the dark tips again, he bends to catch a nipple between his teeth. Michonne whines and her hands grip his shirt, dragging him closer in still. They both mutter sounds as the act brings their bodies deeper than expected.

Rick raises his head to kiss her, their lips brushing at the pace of their bodies. His hand moves to her hip and hoists her thigh so it's raised against his waist. The angle pulls out moans quicker than ever and Michonne says unintelligible words. Rick's name is caught inside her mumbles.

It's his name on her lips that makes Rick lose all reserves. He swoops up the other thigh and Michonne pins her calves tight at his back, gasping. The friction of her thigh's constant brush against his briefs is maddening. His quickened thrusts knock Michonne's head against the wall and her thick locks soften the blow. The rest of her hair whips over her shoulders. Rick wants to feel the thick strands, take them under his hands and let the ends play against her nipples. Instead he focuses on keeping her raised and giving her pleasure.

Rick knows when Michonne is arriving as her sides vice him so tight he can barely move. Her fingers writhe at his back, thighs tight at his waist. Head falling back, she bares her neck, and Rick kisses the exposed throat hard and fast as she lets herself go. He feels himself losing it too as his build reaches the tip. In moments, Rick lets go. He trembles as his seed spreads inside her, his pleasure rushing out with it. He'd meant to draw out before the act but got too lost in the sudden sensation. It's been so long.

Rick groans, sighs. Weak after the release, his face drops to Michonne's shoulder. He thinks to lower her legs but they're still tight against him. She whimpers, her body clutching as she pulses like a drum. Then she too sighs and goes slack.

Rick sets her legs down gently and they relax against each other, too hard at breath to move. It's not for many minutes till Rick pulls back, both floating back on earth. Rick wipes with the edge of his shirt, then waits till he goes soft before adjusting himself back to his briefs.

He doesn't want to dress, even as he parts from Michonne and thrusts up his jeans. He doesn't want this moment to leave them, just would like to ride the after warmth of their sex and let it keep him from the cold of this prison. Even soft, he wants more. Has thoughts of leading Michonne over to the cot and drawing her bare body onto the bed. Seeing her sprawled out, it wouldn't take long for him to harden again. He'd get started on another bout of action in no time.

But he knows this can't happen. Now those voices are definitely there. Far, and at least in their block. The sounds are a strike of reality, and Rick's energy begins to drain. The blood that'd kept him warm slips away. It's leaving his limbs, replacing warmth with a cold feeling.

Rick just had sex with Michonne. Good sex, and a good woman, but a woman who is not his wife.

For the first time in days, Rick sees her; a flicker then a full form at the other side of the prison bars. Rick's heart flinches. No—not now. He grips both sides of his heads, shakes his head firmly. He won't face her. Look at her. Not after he'd had another woman.

Not with that living woman still here, in the corner, watching him with perched eyes. Those eyes are the focal point on her face as shadow maps the curves of her nose and lips.

Michonne's been dressing in her discarded clothes and just finishes snapping her jeans when she approaches him. Rick steps back, but stops. He doesn't want to go near his wife's phantom, standing just behind the bars. He doesn't want Michonne near him either, but does too.

"You okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine." Rick's tone is unintentionally harsh, and Michonne's gaze draws back, looking wounded. Rick curses under breath. It's not her fault, but he's pissed. Pissed at himself for giving in, and pissed at her for making it so damn easy.

Michonne looks up at him under her thick line of lashes.

"You don't seem fine."

She steps closer, approaching slowly. Rick's anger takes a pause just looking at her. This valiant woman, prideful as she was. She'd given herself to him, even if for a moment. Now he is trying to shut her out. This isn't right. He wasn't the fuck then drop type. She didn't seem like the type either.

Despite the front, Rick knew her a little more now. Knew behind her icy glances, Michonne was warm-blooded, caring. It's why he took an interest in the first place. He couldn't just shove her away now.

Lori, despite what his eyes might've think, isn't standing there. She is in that steel sky he'd glared at days before. She has passed and free. Whatever Rick does now is on clean ground. Unlike when _she'd_ slept with Shane, there are no _ifs _here. No shame. New starts.

"You're not here," Rick whispers. He swallows hard. "You're not."

At the words, the white in the corner of his eye flickers, then melts away. Rick sighs. She's gone again. Never was there.

Michonne steps closer, hands at hips.

"Not here? What do you mean? I am here."

Her coils are a thick curtain at her cheek, and she pushes them back. Rick reaches to draw a hand through her locks. Hmm. The texture is thick but gentle, like soft ropes of hair.

"Yes you are," Rick says, pulling his hand back. He eyes Michonne's mouth, she eyes his, and their lips are locked in the next moment. This kiss is not rushed. It's slow, their tender mouths raw and each press of the lips careful. Rick stills Michonne's chin in his fingers, the other hand rested on her hip. He doesn't know why kissing her like this feels so good. Slow and steady, with no rush about it. The world's ending and Walkers threaten every second, but right now none of that means anything. It's just him and Michonne's mouth, kissing, and he doesn't want anything else.

Michonne breaks the kiss, and Rick groans.

"We weren't done," he says.

Michonne's laugh is low.

"But we should probably get out of here," she says.

Rick sighs.

"Yeah." Then a thought strikes him and his heart skips.

He pulls back to meet her eyes.

"Speaking of get out, we need to go on a run. I didn't—"

"Don't worry." Michonne interrupts, reading his worries. "I have something for that."

"Oh."

Rick's brow lifts, wonders what something is. Sure aren't any doctors issuing birth control prescriptions at the time. Those day after pills? Even as Rick nods his relief, his jaw stiffens. Perhaps he's not her only encounter since the world's crash and burn. Really, it's a smart thing to have. He can't really mind. And Michonne can have sex with whoever she wants, _how _much she wants. Despite knowing all this, Rick can't help feeling a mild irritation for whoever else she's had since it all. Unreasonable, he knows. But…

There's a sound. One Rick hardly registers till it gets a good go, the slide of steel bars opening. _This _cell, opening. Rick releases Michonne and they part at a speed reserved for lightening.

Daryl stands at the bars. His shoulders down, his hair a violent mess. He heaves the bars to a wide gape.

"Rick."

Grimes's stomach tenses. Daryl looks savage with his raking breaths, his jacket loose on his shoulders. Under the shadowy space, Rick thinks he sees a dark stain at the front.

"Rick," he repeats.

His voice is weaker, and before Rick can get a word, Michonne departs from the corner she'd slid into. Daryl looks alarmed as if he hadn't noticed her at all. Rick forgot it is dark in here, and in the shadows maybe Daryl hadn't seen them together at all.

"I'm interruptin somethin?" Daryl asks, his eyes on Michonne then back to Rick.

"No." Michonne is quick to say. She moves to the table, her katana in hand and her eyes held in a tense appraisal. She's reading Daryl too, alert as a cat. "Nothing important."

Rick feels a nudge at the gut, but ignores it. She's right. Right now, what they'd done isn't important. Why Daryl rushed in on an adrenaline rush is.

"What's going on?" Risk asks, stepping closer to him.

Daryl's shoulders shudder, his fists clenched.

"He…he killed him."

Rick tries to get closer but Daryl holds out a hand. He backs into the bars; the echo tongs through the space.

"He killed him. My brother." The words rip out from a ragged place, sliding between terse teeth. His face crumbles, firms. "My goddamned brother."

"The governor?" Daryl's head whips to Michonne and he swallows on something, then looks to Rick again.

He shudders some more before explaining what he saw. It's bare fragments; shot up bodies, a walker brother, ripped off fingers.

Rick's throat feels narrow, his expression dark as the room. Michonne's rigid as rock too, and her hand sits on her katana's edge. She trails on Daryl's every word and each second her shoulders look more drawn, chilled. Rick doesn't understand this reaction. From what he knows, Michonne hates Merle. But she's looking on Daryl like she has words, sympathy even. And, also noting her change, Daryl's looking at her like he's waiting for both. She was the last one with Merle, Rick figures. Maybe that's why it hits her like this.

"He felt bad for the things he did." Michonne says. She strokes her blade, her fingertips grazing the point. "Really bad. When he let me off, I knew he was going to the governor's. Might not want to come back."

"You sayin my brother had a death wish?" Teeth bared, Daryl takes a step to her.

"Hey hey." Rick sets himself to a midpoint between the two, a hand on Daryl's heaving chest.

"I'm cool," Daryl murmurs, and Rick lets his hand drop, though stays close.

Daryl's blood is hot, but he doesn't need him getting riled and hurting anyone. Hurting _her_.

Michonne doesn't look the least bit concerned, her eyes level. She hadn't even flinched.

"I'm saying," Michonne continues, "A man like your brother survived this long under that man's strings. He's not dumb enough to just die. If anything, the governor didn't get your brother. Merle let himself be gotten."

Michonne's voice has a careful measure, a lullaby quality in its dense loll. Rick doesn't feel the worse of Merle's death and still feels himself leaning towards her, those words, like for nourishment. Daryl seems to feel the same lure. His tense body draws toward her, narrowed eyes quick on Michonne's face.

"You said there were dead bodies," Michonne continues.

Daryl drops his chin in a nod.

"Yeah," Daryl says. "The governor's people."

Michonne mirrors him, nodding too.

"You see? That makes even more sense. Merle didn't go off on a death wish. He went on strategy. Took out some men, probably tried to kill the Governor. He did this for our chances. _Your _chances_._ The risk of not surviving was a meager thing compared to getting the fields even. To keep his brother alive."

The rabid look that'd clenched Daryl's teeth and pinched his eyes; it's dying down at a rapid pace. The hot blood seems to cool as Daryl's shoulders pull back, the arms crossed over his gut. There's a long silence.

"Yeah," Daryl finally says. He holds Michonne eyes. "You probably right on that."

Rick watches as they continue to share information, gradually moving back till he's against the cot. He drops to the bed, arms between knees. He's not sure what he's seeing. Two shifty-eyed people talking to the other. Guarded postures, careful words, but something open there too. Open doors in barbed wire fences.

"So that's probably how it went," Michonne finishes.

Daryl's chin drops again, firm before it looses tension.

Seeing Daryl not as wild-eyed as before is encouraging. Michonne's somehow tamed the hurt, put his brother's death in a logical package he can digest. Still, Rick pushes a hand through his hair. Something's bothering him now. He feels frustration. Discomfort.

His nails dig into the thin sheets. In these seconds, it's like he's not even there. How selfish of him to feel. Daryl needs Michonne's attention. Rick's had his fill. Plenty of it, in fact.

When Beth's voice reaches up the ceiling and announces supper, Rick's quick to push off the bed. Quick to move close past Daryl and Michonne, who both glance over. Daryl's scratching his hair, and Michonne's just staring. Her eyes follow Rick closely, likely reading his hardened jaw and irritated expression, but he ignores her stares.

Rick wants out of this cell, out of the dark.

Because now he's very hungry.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hi, hi.

I hope you liked this first chapter. So I plan on this to be a 2-3 shot Richonne x Dixonne deal. The M rating should account for every chapter. I'm not sure how much to say about the Ric x Dix deal without revealing too much. I'm working on a lot of speculation as well from heavy implications via the cast members during comic-con interviews. Each chapter should adhere to the M rating for language, violence and blood, and the hot and heavy ;]

Thanks so much for reading. I'd love to hear what you think!

~Yellowspotlight89


	2. Where it Goes

Serpents

_**Where it goes**_

Daryl Dixon doesn't particularly like people.

Then again, he don't particularly hate them either. Just that most folks are like those distant relatives you haven't seen since you were three; met with indifference and best loved far, far away. That way nobody's making things weird, crowding your space.

Daryl isn't fond of crowds. Hates um, actually. But if a year back you told him his dread for crowds would be realized by a buncha dead people, he'd have laughed in your face. Turns out that wasn't a joke he ain't doing no laughing now.

Lucky for him, he hasn't braved a hoard of dead people for a whole twenty four hours. Unlucky for him, no day goes by that don't involve braving a whole bunch of living ones. Like his group. If Daryl had a choice, he'd rather take on the dead ones.

Blasting arrows to skulls is less awkward than talking. You just can't except a year to turn a man from a shut-lipped squirrel to a chatty chipmunk. Not if that man is Daryl Dixon. He's used to mountain air and solitude, not circle time with a group of familiar strangers.

Dixon doesn't think he'll ever get used to the social thing. People who wanna talk just to talk. Not selling anything, needing anything.

_People_, he thinks as he hears a telltale crush underground. _Nope. Never particularly liked people._

_Dead or otherwise. _

Daryl aims his crossbow between a close growing bunch of trees, a walker staggering by the next moment. Its milky sockets focus ahead, the mouth gaping with empty cries.

"Hey."

Tottering to a stop, the walker reels around. So happy to see him with her flaky face lit up, the teeth gritted into a smile. The walker lurches, gargling sweet little nothings along the lines of _meat _and _I'm starved._

"Don't try to eat me, darling." Stalking the looming walker through his eyepiece, Dixon lets her get close enough to grab at him. He jerks back at the last moment, releasing the trig as his arrow punctures her clean through the eyes. "I ain't your type."

As the body drops to forest floor, Daryl lowers his crossbow and bents over it. He jerks his arrow free, shaking off the blood and grizzle. Another crunch sounds behind him.

Still low, Daryl dives ahead and spins as the walker lurches at him. A male. White-faced and black-tongued, snarling.

"Mad about your girlfriend?" Daryl asks it, stepping behind the fallen body. "She came onto me first. I swear."

The arrow set, Daryl marks the walker and launches. The dead thing drops and joins his girlfriend in the after-after life.

Dixon's got his arrow loosed and set again when he spots a shadow sketched out against the foreground. Languid in its pace, the figure sways between the trees. _Shit._ Daryl spins, bow set, finger poised and ready.

But unless the dead have learned to move with feline grace and wield katanas, the woman easing into view is definitely alive. Gliding past the trees, Michonne stares at the bow aimed at her face, murmurs "excuse me" and eases past Daryl.

After a beat he lowers the weapon, following after her before she got too far.

"No tracks, no scents," he says, meeting Michonne's pace. "Looks like there ain't nothin—"

Michonne silences him with a look. A _shut-up and_ _you're wrong_ look. Daryl rolls his eyes. He's getting too used to that one. Enough that he doesn't make fuss about it. Just shrugs and matches her steps, the two of them smooth at heel as they move deeper through the trees.

Daryl gazes ahead, hoping to catch whatever she thinks she's caught. She must be onto something good if they gotta say silent. As they walk, Daryl steals glances at her from the edge of his eye.

Empty chatters, mind-pickers, nosy-fuckers… Daryl understands that Michonne isn't particularly _like people_. Though that lesson didn't take long to learn.

This week has been an unusual one.

Not as strange as the dead stumbling around, but pretty peculiar.

It started the night War took Daryl's brother. War with the face of a one-eyed numbskull. Daryl had felt reckless, ready to go on a run just to scourge some bar for a beer bottle. Anything to keep him from rolling through Woodbury, poppin arrows and bullets into any fool who crossed his path. And while sanity and stupidity balanced on thin thread, a few words from Michonne fixed Daryl back to common sense.

It wasn't nothin she said. No one could convince Daryl that his brother wasn't a hot-headed, quick-fisted dude that, even if hurtling towards death with some back thought, had any motives that didn't center on him and him alone. So it wasn't Michonne's theory that had Daryl turning his head and looking at her a little harder.

It was her empathy.

Wasn't the coddling he got with Carol. She's a good woman he's grown to care for, a mother he wish he'd had, but he didn't take well to gettin fussed over.

Wasn't that tiptoeing Dixon got with Rick either. The practiced pats on the shoulder and the too frequent "doing okay?" knowing the answer is always no.

Wasn't the pity Beth dished with her big-eyed look, Hershel's naughty list Santa frown, the awkward shrugs Glen and Maggie had to offer.

Michonne wasn't about coddles, pity, unease; none of that. She'd just spoke with Daryl and then didn't speak at all. Just set him with a look that never shamed his budding tantrums. Just looked him in the eye as if to say "I understand."

Those were silent words Daryl couldn't soon forget.

Then, a few days later, War happened. Or what Rick and himself liked to call a drawaway. The loss on their side was flat-bottom, though it only took one death to haunt them all. Particularly Michonne.

It was then that Daryl had been catching _her_ eye to say those silent words.

I understand.

And her subtle tilt of the chin meant she knew. Hm. Bonded by death. Who'd have thought it.

Though until yesterday, finally getting out to hunt, he'd hardly got a moment with Michonne. Aside from some lingering passes and nods, seemed like she had always been off somewhere else.

Alone. With Rick. Alright, so a little less than alone.

Daryl didn't keep tabs on people, but it wasn't like he could ignore what was going on, Michonne and Rick sneaking off at any given moment. Wasn't like they were acting too slick about it.

Seemed Michonne had always moved first. Abandoning circular discussions on border control and tactic rehearsals, she'd slip out the room, her hips in a gentle sway. Daryl only have to glance at Rick to note how hard his gaze burned on her backside, hooked on her every movement.

And it wasn't no coincidence Grimes would wrap things up soon after, wasting not a dust-kicking moment before he footed out of there and headed right through the way Michonne had gone.

Daryl couldn't help following them that first time. Not to spy on things, no. But he felt a little strange in his stomach...something he took as suspicious. As much as Dixon didn't mind Michonne, he also minded his people's safety. So twisting down the dim corridor, Daryl had tailed after Rick like a soft-footed hunter. It wasn't hard to track him either, not with Rick's impatient steps and harsh breaths marking him like a bread trail. When Rick turned the corner and another joined his steps, Dixon stayed tucked back into the shadows, thumbing his knife handle just in case.

Then the sounds started up.

Daryl was no dummy. You don't live off the land sortin through all manner of noises and not know what fucking sounds like. The rustle of shoved up clothes, the smack of meeting lips and thrusting bodies. Not to forget the gasps, the moans.

Well. 'Least Daryl knew nobody was getting stabbed or eaten.

Though the eaten part was debatable.

His own breaths getting rapid, Daryl had slipped back towards the main cell block, his hardening dick letting him know what was _up_ before he even reached the light. And damn it; Daryl hadn't seen a thing and his boner was lifted high like an American flag.

He wondered what he'd do about it.

Daryl hadn't gloved himself in months. Not much can turn you on between pulling the plug on undead bodies and fearin for your life. And having listened to Glenn and Maggie getting it on enough, he'd learned to tune out the whines of his dick for a stroke by lying on his stomach. Unfortunately, Daryl couldn't do that now; he shared the cell with Carol and she was in it during the time. Plus with Michonne's eager pants still playing through his head, Dixon's wooden flute needed major tuning if it was gonna lie right.

Just somethin about hearing Michonne and mentally filling in the blanks of each time Rick thrust into her …at the same time imagining it was himself thrusting into her…Daryl ended up grumbling some excuse about watchtower lookout and rushed outside, his balls heavy as bell weights by the time he heave up all those stairs. Hissing as he pulled out his junk, he'd worked himself hard and fast then let out a moan that hit the sky as he dripped all over his hand.

All those months and not a jerk. Daryl cursed himself for being so weak.

But that hadn't stopped him from following Rick follow Michonne a second time. Then a third… Just ya know, to make sure no one wasn't getting attacked and all.

Michonne liked to made him work. Twisting down the prison corridors on silent feet, a game of find-and-fuck me. Most times Rick had no patience for play and Daryl had had to fall into the black and freeze Buddha-style when Rick anxiously gripped her hips mid-walk and dragged her back. Squeezing her between wall and his body, Rick had pulled out his cock and fucked her there then and there –in the hall– the risk of exposure muffling their cries.

All the while not knowing Daryl Dixon had a front seat.

That time Daryl couldn't wait for no watchtower and had ended up whacking off then and there, jerking his dick to the rhythm of Michonne's catch of breath.

Daryl felt no shame for his voyeur habit, nor was he bout to let them know about it either. He'd kept a placid face whenever they returned, one by one. Even when Rick looked at him a little curiously, Dixon never twitched a muscle.

The one time he felt snoopy was the night before the drawaway. They'd fucked in an isolated cell with Dixon in the black, given a partial but pretty good view. At such a witching hour, they'd been loud and rough and wild and Daryl had come in a sudden rupture, the two of them following right after. But the way Rick pushed the hair from Michonne's face after they'd came down, staring down at her with his arms caged around her…

Shit was deep.

But even outside their getaways, it'd been like that with them.

Pre-drawaway, The two had always been sitting close, brushing when they passed each other. The others must've noticed but no one talked as a group about it. These little things gave Daryl the growing feeling that they shared more than just sex. Especially when he'd come out to relief Grimes from watch duty one night, only to find Michonne there with him, playing with each other's fingertips, Rick leaning in to brush his lips to hers…As if he didn't need more proof, there was even saw a shift in Grimes's kids.

Carl asked Michonne how to do things, told her where he was heading...showed more respect Dixon saw him give his mother.

For jokes, and maybe a little spite for being handed a crying Lil Ass Kicker, Daryl had once mumbled "here" as he handed Judith to Michonne, looking like she might faint with the little thing in her arms.

But jokes were on him because Lil Ass Kicker stopped her wailing and settled right into sleep. Rick had come in, looked at Judith and Michonne, and the damn light that his face...

Yep. Something was happening. Like from a fuckin' chick-flick. Rated WR for walker friendly moments and romancing, SC for suggestive hip sways and cell sex.

In all serious, though, Daryl didn't know how to feel about that. Them. He should try not to think about it.

Drawing out of his head, Dixon pays mind to where Michonne is leading him. They're deepening into the woods, the ground underfoot twig-ridden. Michonne steps in line with the grassy patches and Dixon falls back behind her. He maps her body with a serious eye. Smooth dark brown skin, the catlike form… a fat ass.

Daryl feels a weird nudge in his chest.

_Damn Rick_. _I know you're having fun with that._

He watches her a bit more.

_Hell, I'd have fun with that. _

Michonne looks back and Daryl glances away from her ass faster than he's ever looked away from a thing.

Michonne's eyes are saying everything along the lines of _do you mind?_

She caught him.

Struggling against the blood rushing to his face, Daryl lifts his brows as to say _do you?_ A small challenge in his eyes. He wants her to acknowledge his staring. Wants to see what she'll do.

Michonne turns away but Daryl catches the smirk, curiosity burning in his stomach.

He wonders about that woman. If she ever looks at Daryl and well, gets curious. This might've been wrong to entertain, but hard not to think about. Especially as they'd been spending the last couple days together, getting away from the others to hunt.

And yet hadn't done a thing together. Another thing that opened his curious; as of late, she wasn't fucking Rick no more. She wasn't fucking Daryl either, but still. It got him thinking.

Since the drawaway, taking in newcomers, and Andrea's death, seemed like the Rick and Michonne honeymoon was over. They didn't touch much. Talked little. And there'd definitely been no hip-swaying strolls into dark hallways. Dixon didn't know what to think of it. Rick started wandering off again to stare into space more. And Michonne drew into herself like an lid snapping shut, her constantly crossed arms and terse posture all but shouting _stay away._

And Dixon understood.

With the weight of a friend's death on her back, and Daryl's too, they both was looking like cats that'd been forced into an ice bath lately.

Plus, all those foreign faces in the prison made Daryl shifty. He didn't sleep without an eye open, keeping close watch on things to make sure no one got funny. Plus there was the crowd thing making him itchy. Too many bodies in one space gave him the need to break away. Michonne seemed to have the same needs.

And so Daryl had gotten an idea.

He'd go hunting, and take her with.

With more mouths to feed, wasn't like hunting was optional. Rick had approached him the other day about it too. Bringing Michonne along was his own supplement, and though Rick didn't question, he'd looked a bit unokay with that…but didn't protest.

Yesterday was a dupe. The east half of the forest brought up walkers, shrubs, but nothing you want to put in your mouth and live off. This morning had been better. Edible berries and dandelions. Not your fancy lobster, but it'd do.

And now that morning has bled into afternoon, Daryl is hoping wherever Michonne is leading brings promise. Sure, it's good for both of them, the fresh air and space, But Daryl wants all this shin-aching hiking to lead somewhere.

In other words, He wants meat.

They just reach a short clearing when Michonne stops, and Daryl slams on his ankles to stop a collision. Gleaming over her shoulder, he spots nothing.

He almost begins to ask _what _when he sees it.

Animal. A gray brown coat. Small and doing its best to blend in with the trees. Adrenaline finds its way through Daryl's legs and arms. With easy movements, he sets his crossbow and peers through his eyepiece. Yep, a deer. Small. Young or underfed.

Either way, it's good eating. Daryl hoists his crossbow and gets the point lined on the target…but the bow shifts under hand as Michonne's fingers wraps around it.

Daryl bites his tongue, draws it down.

"What?" he snaps.

"Just wait," Michonne says on soft breath.

Daryl groans then, too loud. Both stiffen, checking back at the fawn. It hasn't moved, still stands at the tree. A slight push at its chest. Calm breaths.

Daryl isn't up for Michonne's means of hunting. He can take that deer out before it has time to blink, plus waiting just gets things eaten. Daryl cleans off the tip of his bow and is about to ignore Michonne's advice when footsteps crack in the forefront. The deer's head turns left and it doesn't move.

Then it's here. A beast of the same gray brown coat, but longer-limped with a fatter round. Daryl and Michonne remain still as the deer moves out beside it's fawn. She nudges the back of his head. The deer start off, side to side, leaving the frail safety of the tree.

Michonne and Daryl catch eyes, both nod, and Daryl is ready. Whipping out his crossbow, Dixon aims at the deer's lungs and shoots. It bucks and it drops.

But the fawn moves. It's a quick thing, looked like it expected it, flinching out the way as its mama drops. The deer stumbles for a second, having been brushed by the heavy body, and before Daryl get set a new arrow it's running.

Michonne moves just as Daryl does.

"Stay with it," She hisses and leaps clear over the fallen deer. She skids in the dirt, her katana high and raised. Daryl slows his scuttle to pause at the animal.

"Alright." He gives Michonne a thumbs up she doesn't see with her back to him. The deer's a good trail ahead, but Michonne isn't stopping, leaping over stones and vines as she eats up the distance between her and the fawn.

Daryl thinks to tend to the blood flowing from the kill but he can't get his eyes off Michonne. Limber as she glides between the tree, her thick tresses whipping around her head, the lean legs spread in her artful sprint.

Daryl slides his tongue across his lips. How she looks, sprints, moves. It's kinda…beautiful.

"Whoa," Daryl mouths to himself, shaking his head.

Beautiful? Things aren't "beautiful" in this world. Sure, Michonne looks stunning, but beautiful can't be the word. It's too much. Too strong. Still, like her silent sympathy the day his brother died, beautiful lingers…

Daryl draws on his feet as a walker trails into the clearing. Then another. And another. Ah, right. He's in a walker-infested forest and blood's pooling out of his beast. With one shot he takes out a line of them, gets the other few with a quick shot of bows. There's some distant stumbling and Dixon collects the arrows from the walker heads. Yanking fabric off his shirt, he plucks out the killing arrow and presses on the wound.

From here Dixon takes out walkers, retrieve arrows, plays guard to the deer. A while longer of this and Daryl's feeling an itch. Michonne's still not back. With all the walkers in this wood, he's not sure _if_ she'll get back.

His breaths getting uneven, Daryl eyes set on the way she'd run.

A little meat isn't worth risking her life. Human and deer, they're like fresh mobile blood. No doubt she's probably building a walker following by now….setting herself up for a hoard.

Daryl is not okay with that happening. His legs like rubber, he pulls to his feet. Lips slipping into a thin line, Dixon's breaths are bated. Hunting was a damn stupid idea. Deciding it was time to search, he steps over the deer and starts off. No walkers in sight yet. The meat will be alright for a minute. He'll just jog again a little to call out her name, get some reassurance.

He just wants to make sure she's okay. Not dead yet…

"Where you going?"

Stopping clean, Daryl whirls.

Michonne stands at the clearing's edge. One hand clutched around her katana, crimson tipped and dripping. The other wrapped around a furry limp attached to a sagging body.

"Goddamn it," Daryl mumbles, stomping back over.

Michonne flicks her katana and blood whips off the tip.

"Something wrong?" She asks, stepping towards him.

Michonne gets close enough for him to see her face clearly. She's breathing mildly, her chest in a gentle rise, a deep berry flush on the apples of her cheeks and the tops of her chest. Damn that stupid word, hitting his head again, not leaving him alone.

Beautiful.

Plus, another one.

Alive.

They stare at each other and there's something in her eyes, something that says that she knows what Daryl thinks. It's like she can see each thought tide over his hooded eyes. And there's a lot to see. Daryl's impressed with her prowl, admires her look, relieved she's still breathing.

And there's just something about Michonne being breathy and flushed that brings Daryl right in the dark. Back to when he watched her take her pleasure with Rick. A softness in his limbs, it challenges the blood flow increase in his pecker.

Challenges, but don't win.

Heavy in the jeans, Daryl groans and shifts on his heel.

Michonne's eyes wander down then fly back up. She looks a little shocked. Nervous. Then… intrigued.

Daryl can read her good as she reads him. The growing curiosity bathed in established attraction. Her heaving chest lifts higher, quicker than it had after her chase, and it all but confirms it.

Neither stop looking at each other as the walkers close in around them. Daryl takes one out beyond Michonne's back and she cuts the ankles of two that approach from his sides. The bodies drop and Michonne and Daryl don't looking away.

"Let's go," He finally says, though his eyes say "let's fuck_._"

Michonne goes still, but she heard those unsaid words.

Breaking eye contact, Michonne hoists the fawn and gives Daryl her back. It's the invitation he's been waiting for, one he's had to watch Rick receive as he remained on the sidelines, Dixon narrowing his eyes with the bittersweet taste of desire on his tongue.

Prying his eyes off her, Daryl collects his arrow and shuts down the walkers Michonne left legless. He can barely walk to load the deer, his knees shaky, dick pulsing. Ready.

But walk and load he does. The beast is heavy but he easily drags it behind him, sorta surprised by his strength. Then again, with anticipation pumping hot lust through his veins, he's not so surprised at all.

* * *

Amazing how fast you can load deer in the truck when you put your back into it. Burn miles down the road when you put your foot into it. The car engine groans at Daryl's driving, getting loud enough that he waters down his fiery trail to a gradual purr. He's trying to reach the most shadowed nook of this road he can find. Somewhere to stop without constant checks over shoulder.

The last thing he needs is a hoard shadowing.

And the first thing he needs is to fuck Michonne.

Daryl knew it'd come to this. Sensed it the moment he read her eyes that first night that he'd be exploring her one day. Her sex with Rick strengthened Daryl's yearning to get inside her himself. Watching, jerking and wanting was never enough.

Passing time as he drives, Daryl leads his fingers down Michonne's leg, drawing the tips across her inner thigh. He palms the crotch of her jeans, curses at the heat there. Michonne whimpers, her legs coming together and trapping his hand. Her eyes low, she looks meditative, though there's nothing calm about the breaths pushing out her breasts in a tantalizing rhythm.

Attracted by the moving points under the shirt, Daryl crawls his fingers from her crotch to her chest. He roughly shoves down the top to expose her breasts.

Damn. No bra covers her perky brown tits, the black eyes for nipples tight and stiff. He likes the way they look. Daryl pinches her nipple then circles her areola with the rough pads of his fingers. Her breath caught, Michonne clutches his wrist.

When he pinches hard and she lets out a whispering moan, painful spurts of desire shock his dick.

"Fuck," Daryl groans, switching between the other breast. He's got one eye on her tits and the other on the road, relieved that a shadowy pass of trees is just a short ways down.

"When you stop somewhere, yes."

Daryl smirks at that, glances over. Her eyes are still low as she concentrates on Daryl's hand as he plucks her nipple. Daryl's stop flicking and she sighs. He chuckles a little, feeling cocky. She wants him bad.

Eyes narrowing, Michonne grabs at Daryl's crotch. He jerks and the car veers to the lane over. Daryl curses, his breath harsh as he glances between the road and Michonne.

"Lucky there ain't no traffic these days," he grumbles, righting the wheel with both hands. Michonne's palm is paused on his jeans and Daryl grits her teeth to keep from grabbing her hand to force her to grasp him. He wants her bad too, but isn't bout to let it show so much.

"Oops," Michonne says. Her lip twitches as she begins to rubs the stiff rod under his jeans.

Daryl keeps both hands on the steering wheel, not trusting himself not to drive into a tree. His dick twitches in spasms as Michonne runs lazy fingers along his length. He's gritting his teeth, his thighs straining up to meet her. Damn it. He's losing control under her hands. Control ain't something he's used to losing.

Daryl's breaths are shallow pulls as he settles into the tree-shadowed area. His belly tight and his eyes drop like a cat, letting himself be stroked. Michonne hand quickens to the pace of his breaths, and he has to set his hand on hers to stop it. All that touch is making thinkin impossible. Cutting the engine, Daryl clicks off their seatbelts and presses the button on his seat to fling it far as it'll go. Jerking Michonne on top of him, she falls against him, disorientated as she catches her breath.

"Anxious?" Michonne asks, hands on either side of him.

"Justa little," he murmurs, eyes set on her breasts.

Yeah. Rick had been having all the fun. No fair.

Michonne squirms against Dixon, showing all too well she's a little anxious too. He can help her there. Working the clasp of her jeans, Daryl slips the clingy material to her ankles. Michonne tries at Daryl's zipper but struggles, his bulge making things difficult. With a snort Daryl lifts his thighs for leverage as he undoes the zipper. The top of his jeans freed, his cock protrudes high from his boxers, ready to leave the tent whenever it's time.

But now wasn't time. Too soon. Daryl's attracted to this woman, body and personality, and he wants to make it good. For him and for her.

Leaning forward, Michonne sets herself on his erection. Her bare nipples brush his shirt and Daryl bites his lip from the friction. He seizes her hips and rolls his hands up and down, the narrow waist to the shapely thighs.

"I want you really wet," Daryl mumbles, eying her panties. He wants to dip a finger inside and check her status. With all this play, she has to be on her way. "Ready for me."

Michonne pulls up her chest and Daryl seizes the chance to take her breasts in his hands. He squeezes gently and breaths push from Michonne's lips.

"Keep doing that and I-I'll be soon," Michonne stutters.

Daryl bites on his lip. He's never heard her stumble on words and he's proud of it, knowing he could make her do that. Especially out of practice as he is.

But Michonne is not so much outta practice, is she? Even if it's been a few days.

Daryl drops his hands from Michonne's breasts. Sensing a change, she pulls back and looks at him. Sees his contemplative face and shoves the top back in place over her bountiful chest.

"What?" she asks.

Daryl huffs, looking out the window to gather words. Michonne looks too, then back at him. Two silent people breathing weakly and Daryl trying to find the words to say what he needs to without sounding wussy.

He sighs. Ah hell. He'll wing it.

"You sure this okay?" Daryl says. He fans a hand between the legs seizing his and the dick she's saddled on. "I mean…"

You're kinda fuckin Rick.

Or atleast she fact that they are no longer getting it on might be Daryl's go-ahead, but Dixon doesn't think those two are really done. Like some lovesick puppy dog, it's how Rick's been looking at her. Michonne was kinda the same, cept looking like she needed to speak, only the cat had her tongue.

"Yeah," Michonne says after a minute. "It's okay."

Daryl lifts a brow, shaking the hair from his face.

"You sure? I don't encroach on no man's territory…"

Okay, so he mighta started trespassing, but he could climb back over the fence if he needed to… had to.

Michonne gapes like he'd just spoke Latin.

"Territory?" she asks. "I'm not... _his _territory. I own myself. Now, do you want to do this or not?"

Daryl gives her a hard eye and she gives one right back. Despite the front, her expression makes it obvious. Lust and guilt duel for supremacy and the battle's speaking volumes. Michonne wants Daryl. At this moment. In this car. But whether for a moment or a minute, she wants Rick too.

Daryl's throat makes a light noise. Well, that's her burden to bear. He wasn't about to play moral mediator. Michonne wants him now? Good. She want Rick too, and maybe more? better. Dixon isn't in for all the emotional bows and ties anyway.

Just give him the present and he's satisfied.

Pushing aside all thoughts, Daryl gets his eyes on the important things. Like Michonne's tits. Going in for her, Daryl closes his mouth over Michonne's left mound and works her right breast with his fingers. Her back arches and fills Daryl's mouth with more breast and he suckles her from outside the t-shirt, soaking the cotton.

Michonne draws in sharp intakes and bucks her hips against his reemerging erection. Daryl grunts, swirling his tongue and only pausing long enough to move onto the next beast. He teeths her nipples and she cries out.

"You like that?" Daryl murmurs, moving up to drag his lips across her neck, teeth grating the sensitive flesh. Michonne's breaths grow heavy and her eyes slid down, half-mast as she watches him.

"Take a guess," she breaths. Moving her hips again, she rocks against his cock in a languid, hungry motion.

Daryl's nails dig into her legs to set her still, but Michonne continues to roll her legs against him.

"Damn it, Michonne," Dixon mutters, taking her hips and nudging her up. Her ass bumps the steering wheel and it gives a light honk. They both laugh mildly.

"Stay set right there," Daryl says, detaching one hand from her hip to crawl down her navel. He reaches her panties. Pushing his hand inside, he smoothes it across the thick mat of curls then travels lower. Finding her warm center, he dips a finger inside of her.

"God," he groans. "So wet."

Michonne's breath sharpens and she mumbles a _yes._

Daryl teases the outside of her lips and she squirms but his right hand holds her still. He dips one finger inside and flickers it quickly in and out. Michonne's moans fill the car as another finger finds its way inside her, roaming over her clit and sending a tremble through her thigh.

"S-shit," Michonne mutters.

"Better than that, darling." He presses his right hand against her navel and gives her the freedom to rock the hips again. Her body arches as she drops to his lap again, right onto his granite hard erection.

"Good Lord," Daryl mutters, his fingers moving faster inside her hot and wet pussy. She gives a whimper and rocks faster against his pulses, pants going shallow. Daryl's breaths match hers as his fingers circles over her clit, pressing down firmly, again and again. Just as Michonne squeaks on pleasure, about to reaching something he didn't want her reaching, he pulls out a moist finger.

"No no. Not coming without me," Daryl says with a wink. Michonne puts out her lip, looking pouty.

It's mighty cute.

"Let's go then." Reaching between them, Michonne unfolds Daryl's dick from the slit in his boxers. It springs out at the ready, and Michonne sets herself on him in a full sweep.

Daryl's vision darkens as pleasure unfurls through his cock and he can't even breathe. She feels so good around his dick, steeped and ripe and ready. A better squeeze than his rough spit-on palm any day. Michonne grips his shoulders and moves herself on top of him, working up and down with a whine on her lips.

"Yeah," Daryl sets his hand on her waist, going down to squeeze the hip.

His knees jut up to meet her bounce and Daryl knows they won't last long. He sits up so his face slides between her breasts, his mouth parted against her chest and muffling his erratic grunts. Dixon feels Michonne curling up around him, tense and tight and chocking his dick in the best way imaginable.

Feeling no more need to wait, Daryl lets himself go, his cum bursting inside her. She jolts against him and he seizes her hips, helping her ride him up to the finish. Michonne makes a sound and falls against his body to let him manually move her up and down.

She whimpers, he groans, and both grow limp.

They're still for a while. Michonne still propped on the head of his cock and Daryl's hands stroking her waist. Then gradually, Michonne gradually pulls up. Her breaths still off, she draws up with the help of Dixon's shoulder.

Daryl and Michonne stare at each other, both sets of eyes hot and fired, waiting for the other to say something. Daryl's got nothin. Sex with Michonne is something he's been craving. He'd always pictured taking her from the back, doggy style and all, but he'd accept what he got. Maybe a later date. Until now, their stare is intense, her mouth is wet, and he wants to kiss them.

Reaching up, Daryl grips the back of Michonne's neck. Her eyes lower as he drags her closer to him, stopping right outside his lips. Michonne hesitates, searches his face, then her eyes shut. Hand tight on her neck, Daryl tips his chin and places a light kiss to her lips. It's warm, her smooth full lips against his cracked ones a soothing abrasion. The second time they kiss, his gut burns like he'd had a shot of wine and he makes it longer, deeper. Michonne sighs into his mouth, meeting his lips with a press of her own. Heat radiates off her skin and burns his cheeks.

His hand pressed firmer to her back, Daryl nips her lips then places another kiss on her mouth. Then one hard. He's getting worked up and he thinks another fuck is in session. Sliding his tongue across her lip, he forces her mouth to part, and he's about to slid in when a bang hits their window. Michonne leaps and perches to a stand like she's caught. Her head bumps the car roof and she curses and clutches her head.

Daryl glances at the deteriorating face outside his window. Its grimy nails scrape the glass, begging to get in.

"You okay?" Daryl says, cutting his eyes back to Michonne. She's thrusting up her clothes.

"Mm," she says, rubbing her head. "Let's just get outta here."

Michonne slides off his lap. He thinks to protest, but she moves quickly to the passenger seat, her face turned away to the window. Well then.

Turning the key, Daryl gets the engine excited and excites the walker in the process. It clomps it teeth, stretches out its jaws, silently begs to get inside for a taste of flesh.

"Sorry," Daryl says as he puts the car in truck guns forward and Daryl glances at the rearview mirror, sees the walker stumbling on its feet without the car to support it. "Ain't no room for three."

* * *

Now that he's left cloud nine for cell block D, Daryl wonders if it was worth it.

Dixon's not one of those after-sex dwellers, so for the fact that he sits here, a hand working through a hair and a fuss in his head, he decides to really think about this. Straightening in his chair, Daryl rolls his gaze over the deer carcasses. Well let's see.

Meat for at least a good two weeks. Some time away from the stale prison and all those people. Plus some unexpected, eye rolling sex. _Was_ it worth it? Daryl lifts his eyes, looks at Michonne at the end of the table. Looks away.

Hell yeah, it was worth it.

Still. This is fuckin awkward.

Lifting out of his chair, Daryl slaps his hands.

"So…" he starts, glancing between Michonne and Rick, both on either side of the table. They stare at each other so hard Daryl wonders if they're really glaring at each other or just in a really intense staring contest. "We gonna smoke these babies or what?"

Michonne shifts in her chair towards Daryl. Rick continues to bore his gaze on her but she ignores it.

"I can start the pit," she says. "You and _him_ can cut the meat."

"...Alright." Daryl turns to Grimes. "Sound good?"

"Hmm," he grumbles, hardly looking at Dixon. "Good."

"…good."

Daryl slides a knife from his pocket and inspects it. Hadn't cut walkers in a while, but better safe than infested. Drawing out a lighter, he flicks it on and heats his blade. All the while he glances at the two irritable people.

Michonne hasn't moved and Rick hasn't moved and Daryl's oddly reminded of some marriage counseling session. He the counselor. He shakes his head. No. Nope. He isn't about to play shrink to no samurai and cowboy. If they have stuff to work out, they could do that without him.

Whistling as he sanitizes his blade, the wedding march dies out when the two grumps turn to Dixon. Brows lowered on tense faces like he's the problem.

Well, excuse him.

"I meant to ask," Rick says. He's got his cop voice on. Distant. "How'd you come across this deer, anyway?"

Pulling back the lighter, Daryl stuffs it in his pocket. He wants to laugh, but that'd be cruel. He likes Grimes, so his tense jaw and cop mode ways shouldn't amuse him. Acting distant while being as indirect as possible. Dixon expects more from a man who's used to all sorts of confrontations. He had to kill his crazed best friend, for Christ's sake.

Rick ain't that concerned about his deer.

Instead of beating around the bush, he should just ask the real question burning his tongue.

Like _did you fuck her?_

But Rick doesn't ask, so Daryl isn't bout to tell.

"I didn't come across it, actually," Daryl admits. He gestures towards Michonne. "She lead us to it."

Rick pauses, then sets a fist on his chin.

"Really."

Really is right. Even Daryl isn't so sure how she found the deer when he couldn't. There'd been no notable scents. No tracks. It was like the woman was working on some internal venison GPS.

"How _did _you do it?" Daryl asks, since Rick was just looking like he wanted to ask but acting too chicken. Prideful. Whatever.

Michonne taps her fingers on the table edge.

"Well, I came across a walker that had some fuzz in his lips. Turns out it was deer fur. I'd cut him open and he didn't look to have any recent feed in him, so I backtracked the way he wandered from. From there, I was kind of guessing."

Daryl lifts a brow.

"You lead us on a guess?"

Michonne strokes the back of her neck.

"Well. It was a _good_ guess," she says, shrugging.

Well damn. Daryl's feet still feel like hell from all that forest wandering.

Still, he sighs.

"Well that good guess got us meat, so I ain't even mad."

Michonne gives him the speaking-latin look, crossing her arms.

"Good. 'Cuz if it bothers you that much, your protein's canned beans tonight."

Daryl's mouth twitches.

"Is that so?"

A wry smile touches Michonne's lips.

"It is."

Daryl and Michonne share a smile. Meanwhile, Rick is burning a hole through Daryl's neck.

Aha, Dixon thinks. The puppy dog feels left out?

So what if they did a little flirting? They'd done way more than that this same hour. Daryl tries translating that_ I ain't guilty_ look with a cocked eyebrow, but Rick doesn't accept the message, still eying his throat like it's a shooting target. Dixon is mildly entertained.

Irritating Rick is kinda fun, and Dixon has a free pass to do it. He never _did_ thank him for locking his brother on a rooftop. Might as well use that pass up.

Getting an idea, Dixon saunters to the side of the table, stopping beside Michonne's chair.

"You're a good hunter Michonne," Daryl says to her. "Good eye."

There's a pause and Daryl can feel the tension squeezing off Rick's body in waves, squeezing the gray walls.

"Thank you…?" Skepticism in her eye, she looks at Daryl then glances at Rick before her gaze darts down to the table.

Daryl's bites on his tongue to keep from cracking. He probably shouldn't stir this already boiling pot, but they make it too easy.

Dixon sets a hand on her shoulder and Michonne jolts.

"We could make it a habit," he says. He speaks under his breath, just loud enough for Rick's ears.

"Make _what_ a habit?"

Michonne and Daryl glance across the table. Rick blinks, like he hadn't expected the words he's just blurted. He'd pushed out of his chair, but slowly settles back down.

Daryl waits a beat, then says "hunting. What else?"

Dixon can feel Rick's face burning from the other side of the table. He clears his throat.

"Uh, right. Nothing. Never mind."

This is where Dixon should feel bad for his actions. Making the guy all uncomfortable and all. Should.

"Anyway," he says, focus back on Michonne. "Maybe we can see if them deer had—"

"Let's not let this meat sit out any longer," Rick interrupts.

Pushing from the table again, he turns to pace. His boot claps are loud, dropping like heavy heartbeats.

Michonne slides from her chair too. Pushing it in, she hoists her katana from the floor and sets it on her back.

"I'll be out front then." She pauses, then stares at Rick's turned back. "Call me if you need me."

"Yeah," Rick says. His response is vague and late.

Michonne pauses.

"Yeah_?" _ She seems to want more, sets her weight to the back foot, rocking to the front.

Rick turns. Cheeks flat and jaw tight, he draws a hand over his beard as if to rub out the tension.

"Yes. I said yeah." Voice plain. Cop-distance. Group leader courtesy.

_Ouch. _

Michonne's lips pull in between her teeth. Holding in something hard, though her eyes look soft and hurt. A nudge hits Daryl's chest. He feels a bit accountable now.

"Hurry up with that cutting them," Michonne says. "I'll be waiting when you're done."

Rick holds her eye, looking less hard, but Michonne just narrows hers and flips away. As she passes, she side-eyes Daryl. He hears her message loud and clear.

_Idiot. _

Daryl grimaces.

As Michonne slides out the room, hand perched on her katana, there's no sway in her hips, no invitation for either man. And when she yanks back the separation and slams it closed, it is obvious; the only thing she's giving these men is bars.

Others in the cellblock drop out of Michonne's way as she cuts through the cell. Daryl only looks away when she disappears, blowing out a low whistle at the slam of a door.

"...Wanna start on these?" Waving his knife over the sprawled out deer, Rick approaches the table.

"Sure thing," Daryl says. Cracking his knuckles and still feeling sore in the chest, he joins Rick's side. Rick has that same sore and guilty look, so at least he's not alone.

The men work in pin drop silence. Cut strips off the deer, lay the completed pieces in a pile, and repeat. Even the voices in the nearby block are low and add to the thick silent air. And here Daryl thought it couldn't get any more awkward. This was more unsettling than the Rick and Michonne's stare-down.

But this is what happens when you stick your foot in some unresolved love feuds.

"I thought you hunted alone."

Rick says it suddenly, piercing the silence.

"Usually do," Daryl says after a hesitation. "But figured Michonne might wanna get out the prison for a while. Take a break from all these people."

A tense pause.

"Ah." Rick cuts through some hard grizzle. "That's...courteous of you."

"I think she appreciated it."

Rick's lip thins. He's really working on that meat now, his arm sawing and nearly elbowing Daryl in the gut. Dixon slides out the way in time, cocking an eyebrow. Rick moves onto the next piece and operates in the same way.

"That ain't supposed to be my neck, is it?"

His tone is light but he keeps his gaze serious.

Rick is a little more than frustrated. What, was he taking his words wrong? Or perhaps, right? Or merely thinking of the few moments before with Michonne. Their little banter, Grimes knows about Michonne and Daryl's pit stop isn't clear, but he wasn't smiles and rainbows when Dixon set off that morning with her either. Not that anybody smiles much these days but.

Rick sets down his knife. A good sign, getting sharp objects from hand, especially if the man is feeling erratic. Dixon doesn't need the precaution, though, cutting a thick deer slab as he waits on Rick.

"I apologize," he says. Rick nudges hair from his eyes with a wrist. "That wasn't meant to be hostile. I'm just taking out some steam."

"I get you."

Daryl cuts on, eyes slightly widened in expectation, a little short. Rick is still turned at him, and he knows there's more.

"So uh…" Rick's gaze darts around. "I'm not sure how to phrase this."

When Rick fidgets with his knife, still not speaking, getting to the point, Daryl can no longer wait.

"You can start by asking if we had sex," he says. "And I could end by saying yeah."

Oop. The words just came out. Direct and maybe a bit sudden, but Dixon is growing tired of this long-drawn conversation. It was sapping him of energy he needed for smoking meat. It's gonna take well through the night and they'd need to keep an eye on it.

Daryl waits for Rick to be shocked, then maybe deny that was what he was getting at.

Instead his head dips as he blows out a breath.

"Now _that's_ obvious," he says.

Daryl stops cutting.

"Oh?" He raises a brow at him. Now he's the shocked one.

Rick lifts his face, smile dry, more grimace than anything.

"Let's just say I know Michonne's shirt wasn't wet from the rain."

Ah. So he noticed that. Dixon had thought the wet splotches over Michonne's nipples might dry up by the time they got back. But they didn't, and the brown coloring of recently sucked nipples had showed through clear. Daryl had thought if he ignored it, maybe Rick wouldn't notice. Guess not.

"Weren't too sneaky then, huh?"

"No, you weren't."

Tension works under Rick's jaw, and Daryl feels mild pangs of guilt. The conversation seems to be over, so he goes back to helping Grimes cut meat. He isn't sure what to say and can't really apologize. It'd be insincere, for he wanted to have sex with Michonne. Even then he couldn't take all the credit because _she_ wanted sex with him too.

"I have no real claim on her." Rick says, shrugging his shoulders.

Daryl lobs his chin in a nod. Michonne made that clear too.

Grimes goes on.

"I mean…we mighta been trying things out but, just wasn't working. So it kinda split up. No big deal."

"I hear you."

Daryl was hearing, but he also seeing the way Rick's fist curl over his knife. He's not looking like it's no big deal. He glares down at the deer like it did something to him.

Rick breaks the silence again.

"I really don't mind if you two wanna...yeah. I'm not attached."

Daryl snorts.

"Bullshit."

Rick sits up like he's been pulled up by a string. He blows out a low breath.

"Nah, really. I'm good. Indifferent."

_He wishes._

"You're wrecked, man." Daryl shakes his head. "You like her."

To get back to youngin terms, he_ like_, liked her.

Rick looks to protest, shoulders raised, but he sets them down.

"Alright," he admits. "A little."

"Or a lot."

Rick grimaces.

"A lot."

There you go, Grimes. Wasn't too hard to admit, was it?

Daryl wipes his hands on his shirt and waits. He's not gonna push him, but if he wants to talk, he's got an ear. The people in the main block make for distant noise, also making theirs more concealed in the process.

"We've been together several times." Grimes's lips lift subtly. "As_ you_ know."

Daryl sucks at his cheek. Oh, guess he isn't the quietest creeper. Or Ejaculator. He tugs a little as his neckline, but tries to ignore the embarrassment.

"Okay, been together. So what went wrong?"

"I guess…" Rick sighs, flattens his hands across his jeans. "I got intimidated."

"By…"

From there, Rick lets him in. All cop vices down, they were two men now, uncomfortably sharing their feelings. Real feelings. The first encounter that lead to many more, almost to the point that they were becoming addicted to lust and affection Rick felt for Michonne, too entwined to separate. Then the interruption to all that. Rick ends his words to slide his teeth over his lips.

"I guess it became too much," Rick says. "I realized how deep I was in, then once Andrea died and Michonne was so ruptured...I got so concerned that I'd say the wrong stuff, do the wrong things, and I backed away."

Rick rubs his neck, his eyes narrowing a little on Daryl's face.

"And I guess got replaced?"

"Nah," Daryl assures. He bats a hand. "Not replaced."

He thinks to tell him about how crossed Michonne was with him. Willing, but still itching with unfinished business with Rick. But that'd put him in a spot he don't wanna be in either. Giving the okay to pass on by the ole Dixon again. Put him back on the outside looking in.

He'd let Rick have all that mush. His feelings were obviously deep, but Daryl didn't need that. If he wanted sentimental, he'd go to Carol. But like Rick, he likes Michonne too. She intrigues him, she's trusted, and Dixon doesn't want to let her just slip away.

All in all, he wants her friendship. And yeah, her body too.

"Not replaced," Rick repeats. He pins his arms over his chest. "Then what would you call it? Lending?" He sounds derisive about it, obvious tension in his stance. Ah, yeah, Rick's a clinger. These types are dangerous to stand in the way of.

Daryl licks his dry lips as he mulls this over. He wants to help his friend, yet he wants to help himself. too And while Rick didn't fret about the spying shit, Dixon couldn't go back to that. It was weird enough thinking no one knew about it.

And now that he's had Michonne, and there were a whole lot of ways he hadn't had her, he doesn't want to let that go so easy.

But then again; why does he have to?

"Not replaced and not lending," Daryl finally says. "But how about... sharing?"

Daryl wants to photograph the look on Grimes's face.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Hi hi!

So one chapter left, and I hope you enjoyed this one. I'm sure you know what the next chapter is leading up to, but if you have any particular stuff and thangs you want to see, feel free to let me know and I'll see what I can do ;]. Also tell me what you think of this one sil vous plait ^^

See ya then!

Yellowspotlight89


End file.
